


To the Sound of Trumpets

by MajorAccent



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Anal Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, OMC - Freeform, Rimming, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorAccent/pseuds/MajorAccent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do we have to start running for our lives?” He grumbles, voice still sleep-rough as he turns to hide his face in the pillows.</p>
<p>Stiles hums, mouth still full as he channel surfs to Fox News. “No,” he answers, making a face and bypassing it to Cartoon Network. “Body hasn’t been found yet. No one’s called it in, either.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Sound of Trumpets

**Author's Note:**

> “It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.”  
> ― Voltaire

“Shit!” Derek curses, jerks back as his scope explodes into pieces. He looks around to the neighboring buildings, catching sight of Stiles perched up on the reinforced concrete rim of the skyscraper across the street.  
  
Stiles waves, his hand wrapped around a .22 TCM by its grip. “Channel five,” he mouths, pointing to his ear piece.  
  
“What the fuck was that?” He barks as soon as he switches his radio over.  
  
Laughter fills the communication link as Stiles gasps through his snickering. “Why do you even have a scope?” He asks, squinting in disdain at Derek’s L85A1 bullpup. “I’ve got the drop on you  _and_  Smollar.”  
  
Derek scowls, repositioning his mount to target his mark. “You can’t see him from that angle,” he mutters.  
  
“What? Like it’s hard?” Stiles asks with an exaggerated tsk. His hammer audibly clicks as he cocks it back, pointing it at the windows of the Royalton. “Did you know they have to differentiate between their penthouses by A, B, and C?” He questions, conversational. A peal of scoffing and sardonic giggles crackle over the comm. “Jesus, how much do you think it costs to be that ostentatious?”  
  
“Too much,” Derek answers absently, observing Smollar as he settles in the bed to watch MSNBC.  
  
“You got him?” Stiles breathes back, arms out-stretched and steady. “Because I’m ready to blanket this douche.”  
  
“Do it,” he commands, intent as Stiles shoots out the electrical and plunges the room into blackness, followed up by Derek’s shot.  
  
There’s rustling as Stiles jostles and takes out his monocular. “Knew you could do it without your scope,” he says, fondness in his tone.  
  
Derek just sighs, exasperated. “You owe me a new one,” he grumbles and packs up his weapon.  
  
“Yeah, well,” Stiles shrugs. “That’s what you get for bringing an assault rifle when a handgun could have done the job.” He tucks it in to the waistband of his dress pants, crossing his arms. “Now,” he begins with a sniff, fixing his cufflinks. “Want to be my alibi?”  
  
Derek looks back over the building, seemingly thinking about it. “Jimmy’s in five?” He asks, nodding down West 44th.  
  
—  
  
Derek’s hand lands on Stiles’ lower back, palming the Armscor where it’s still hidden in his slacks, guiding him to the booth.  
  
“What do you want to drink?” He asks, leaning in closer to whisper, hand still in the same place. Intimate because they both know it’s easier for people to identify a lovesome couple than two guys who just want to split a pitcher of beer.  
  
Stiles pretends to think about it, inspecting the bar with more of an interest in scoping out possible exits. “Goldeneye? Neat?” He requests, settling on to the upholstered bench.  
  
Derek nods, sweeping to the bar with careful grace as Stiles looks to the TVs spaced around the walls. ESPN’s playing highlights on a few, leaving the others with an infomercial about knives. He deigns that it’s too conspicuous to ask them to change it to the local news, so he pulls out his phone and tries to load up CNN.  
  
Derek sets the lowball down, sipping from his own yellow drink as he slides in next to Stiles. “Am I not enough entertainment for you?” He asks, hot into his ear. Which is his way of telling Stiles to  _put the fucking phone away_.  
  
Stiles smiles sweetly, dropping it into his lap. “Sorry, doll,” he says, reaching for his glass, rolling the liquid over his tongue. Derek reaches over, squeezing at the back of Stiles’ neck as he nudges him into place, close against his side. “Your place or mine?” Stiles questions, hand falling below the line of the table to Derek’s thigh, aware of the leers they’re getting from a few of the patrons around the bar.  
  
“I’m on East 76 th,” he answers, taking another mouthful.  
  
Stiles hums, leaning into the touch more. “5th Avenue,” he admits, knowing Derek’s already judging him for the glitzy implications.  
  
Derek smirks. “How much does it cost to be that ostentatious?” He quotes, his thumb sweeping at Stiles’ hairline.  
  
“I wouldn’t know,” Stiles answers, lips quirked with thinly veiled amusement. “Mr. Jafari was very generous during our lunch this afternoon.” Derek’s gentle circles stop and Stiles laughs, tucking his face into Derek’s neck to muffle the sound. “You’re so easy,” he goads. “It was strictly business.”  
  
—  
  
They end up in Stiles’ room, barely past the door and plastered against the foyer’s ridiculous mirrored wall, tripping out of their shoes.  
  
“Wait,” Stiles gasps against Derek’s mouth, nudging him away. “I’ve got like two guns on me,” he gripes, moving to tug the revolver out of his waist band.  
  
“Two?” Derek questions as he undoes the shoulder holster hiding under his jacket.  
  
Stiles laughs, tugging him back by his tie. “Just don’t be surprised by what’s strapped to my ankle,” he entreats as Derek knocks his knees apart.  
  
“How long are you booked?” Derek asks against Stiles’ Adam’s apple, even as their hips shove together and he busies his hands with undoing the buttons of his shirt.  
  
Stiles slaps Derek’s wrists in his haste to unknot his tie. “Until Friday,” he mutters, shouldering his jacket off, letting Derek tug the cotton up from the pleats and push it off. “C’mon,” Stiles urges, pushing at Derek’s shoulders, ridding him of the blazer before he stops and laughs. “Suspenders?” He questions, tugging it up and letting it snap back down on Derek’s collarbone.  
  
Derek levers himself back, shooting an unimpressed look at Stiles before he slides them off and reaches up to cup his jaw. “Do you want to continue this or talk about my fashion sense some more?” He asks between harsh bites that have Stiles’ hips canting for friction.  
  
“Well, if there’s options,” Stiles chokes out as Derek’s thumb nail razes his nipple through the undershirt, even as his own hands start making quick work of his dress shirt. “Fuck,” he grunts, head slamming back to the wall, hands twitching uselessly in the cotton as his thighs clamp on Derek’s muscled one.  
  
Derek chuckles against his throat, making Stiles want to shove back at him. “There’s really not,” he insists, tugging the leather out of Stiles’ belt-loops. He makes an aborted noise in response, reaching out to yank the thin undershirt over Derek’s head.  
  
“Bed,” Stiles commands on an exhale. “Fucking— _bed_ , Derek.” He’s pushing toward the archway that divides the suite in half before Derek grapples for his waist and is throwing him down to the mattress. He catches Stiles’ flailing leg, pushing the pant leg up to unclip the holster.  
  
He snorts faintly, setting it on the ground. “A Ruger?” He tuts, disdainful even as Stiles shoves his pants down his thighs and squirms to get them past his knees. Derek just huffs and pulls the wool off completely.   
  
Stiles kicks out, heel digging into Derek’s kidney. “You have no room to talk,” he refutes succinctly, leaning up to undo the button of Derek’s slacks. He palms briefly, squeezing and drawing back just as quickly to push the pants into dropping. “Stuff’s in the front pocket,” he instructs, nodding to the to the travel kit sitting on the desk in the corner as Derek steps out of the pooled tweed. “Since you’re up,” he shrugs and flops back, taking up as much space on the mattress as he could before he slipped his hand into his briefs to grope at himself.  
  
Derek rolls his eyes when he throws the lube and condoms down beside Stiles’ hip. “Impatient,” he comments idly, nudging Stiles’ wrist up to pin it by his head as he slots between Stiles’ legs.  
  
Stiles huffs a laugh, warm and humid against Derek’s shoulder. “It’s like you know me,” he jokes, twisting into a languid roll that has them both stifling a groan. “C’mon,” Stiles says for second time that night as he clasps a hand to Derek’s nape and tugs him down to bite at his lips and lick in, turning the kiss hot and messy.  
  
Derek’s shifts back, earning a frustrated whine that quickly morphs into a pant as he wrenches Stiles’ briefs clean off. “What do you want?” He asks easily, thumb brushing the underside of his exposed cock, spreading the mess of pre-come.  
  
He glances up, catching sight of Stiles chewing his lip as he contemplates. “You’ve got next round,” he contends, throwing the tube of slick on to his belly and opening his legs into a splay.   
  
“Planning ahead?” Derek prods into the crease of his thigh, reaching up for the lube and wetting his fingers. He sinks two in slowly in the middle of Stiles’ response just to get him to break off into a keen when he crooks the digits.  
  
“Hate you,” Stiles tells him despite needy groans that keep escaping the back of his throat and the way his hips are shoving back to meet each thrust.   
  
Derek noses along Stiles’ iliac crest, tongue darting out to swirl around the flushed and spitting head of his sex. “You sure about that?” He asks, adding another finger with unfaltering rhythm.  
  
Stiles reaches down, getting a death grip on Derek’s wrist. “Please,” he wheezes, wavering on a breathy sigh. “Please, m’ready.” Derek presses into his perineum just to watch him hiss and tighten in response, head thrown back into a taut arch as he huffs a soundless sob.  
  
“Still think you’re ready?” Derek asks, but his voice sounds wrecked even to his own ears. Stiles whimpers, hips still driving into the sensation. “ _Yes_ ,” he grits out, fisting his hands into the sheets with renewed frustration as Derek’s tongue traces around his hole, alongside his fingers.  
  
“Fucking—” Stiles stutters out at the wet squelch that sounds as Derek draws back to kneel toward the roll of condoms, pushing his own briefs down the rest of the way. “Finally,” he swallows thickly, hooking his knees around Derek’s waist to draw him in.  
  
Derek’s arms shift to spread Stiles’ legs further as he presses in steadily. He pushes closer, teeth clamping down on his collarbone as he circles his hips, grinding back in just as slow. Stiles’ thighs are already soft pink and shaking from the drag, his body eager and responsive with each spasm.  
  
“Wow,” Stiles gripes, hands firm on Derek’s shoulders as he strains quietly. “Just—” He starts, squirming in attempt for leverage to change the steady, gentle pace into something sharper. “Let me,” he implores on a grunt, still sounding winded.  
  
Derek glares and rears back, but Stiles follows until he’s pushed him down and seated on his lap. “Better,” he sighs, sinking down until they’re flush together. “Next round,” Stiles begins, reaching to the duvet around Derek’s head and gripping as he rocked in hurried shoves. “Whatever you want,” he claims around a hiccupping groan.  
  
“Promises,” Derek croaks roughly, his own hips driving to fuck up into Stiles in jerky thrusts.  
  
Stiles grins, eyes wide with laughter before he clamps them shut and bites his lips to muffle a punched out mewl. “Not gonna last,” he warns, reaching down to fist his own cock before Derek reaches out and cups the shaft in his calloused grip, making Stiles whine and buck forward. “Yeah,” he urges, pumping faster.  
  
The high whimpering’s constant from between Stiles’ heavy panting, his hips starting to falter as he presses harder. “Gonna,” he hisses, hands scrambling to grip at Derek’s shoulders, before he’s tensing and exhaling noisily. A choked noise bellows from Derek as Stiles clenches down and coats his hand, still driving up even as his thighs lock.  
  
“Derek,” Stiles whispers into his ear, hand coming up to scratch across his scalp as he rolls his hips to meet. His breathing’s ragged, broken by tiny mewls he can’t contain when Stiles bites his jaw. “Soon,” he mutters breathlessly, eyes already screwing shut as his rhythm fails and buries deep.  
  
Stiles makes a quiet noise as he leans back up, wiping a hand down his chest with a grimace, a hazy background to Derek’s comedown. “Here,” he murmurs and grabs a hold on the base of Derek’s cock as he lifts up.  
  
“I’ve got it,” he slurs back, rolling the condom off before knotting it as Stiles shuffles to the bathroom for a hand towel.  
  
—  
  
Derek wakes up to CNN playing on the flat screen and Stiles getting crumbs from his danish all over the sheets.  
  
“Do we have to start running for our lives?” He grumbles, voice still sleep-rough as he turns to hide his face in the pillows.  
  
Stiles hums, mouth still full as he channel surfs to Fox News. “No,” he answers, making a face and bypassing it to Cartoon Network. “Body hasn’t been found yet. No one’s called it in, either.”  
  
“Good,” Derek settles, stretching out further until he can feel Stiles’ heat along his flank. “Not looking forward to NYPD beefing up its patrols yet.”  
  
Stiles laughs, kicking him under the covers as a rerun of King of the Hill continues in the background. “Go back to sleep, dickwad,” he instructs. “You need your strength; I want the people in the rooms around us to know our names and hate us by checkout.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just kept referring to this as "Assassin Boyfriends," until it had an actual title.  
> And, I'm going to blame this on late-night Venture Bros. viewings. The OSI and SPHINX make me think about secret agents which translated into asshole assassins that banter through sex.
> 
> Anyway. [This](http://www.foldedpinup.tumblr.com) is my tumblr if you feel like yelling at me.


End file.
